Page 104 of It takes a Psychic

Chapter Forty-Eight

Roxy chortled and bounced offher shoulder. By the time Leona looked up from her phone, the dust bunny was racing toward the food truck parked in the long driveway.

“What could possibly go wrong?”

Oh, yeah. Right.

“Roxy, come back, sweetie. The car will be here soon. Time to go.”

But Roxy had arrived at the food truck. She vaulted up onto the ledge in front of the order window and went into adorable mode.

The server chuckled and handed her a bag of pretzels. “There you go.”

Roxy chortled in delight and went to work opening her prize. The bored reporters were amused.

Leona groaned and walked toward the truck. “How much do I owe you?”

“No charge,” the server said. “Worth it for the entertainment.”

“How are things going in there?” one of the reporters asked, angling his head to indicate the mansion. “Are they finding anything interesting?”

“You’ll have to ask the people in charge,” Leona said. “I’m an outside consultant. I never comment on my clients’ projects.”

A woman carrying a microphone stepped in front of her. “Why did they think it was necessary to bring in an outside consultant?”

“It’s routine to call in specialized talent on major projects like this one. Don’t worry, I’m sure the director, Dr. Fullerton, will hold a press conference later today. You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got an appointment with another client.”

She scooped up Roxy and hurried back to the front steps of the mansion.

Her phone rang. She recognized the familiar code and took the call.

“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

“We just finished running the genealogical search using the data about the Willard brothers and their sister, Agnes,” Eugenie said.

“It was a complex search,” Charlotte added. “We won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that the real clues were in the files of the asylum where Agnes was hospitalized. We told you that she died a few months ago. Turns out there wasn’t much in the way of an estate, but what she did have—mostly her personal effects—went to the only surviving relative, a niece.”

“So Cyrus Willard had a child?”

“Yes,” Eugenie said. “But he never knew her. Evidently he needed cash at some point, so he sold his sperm to a fertility clinic. It took some doing—Charlotte had to hack the sperm bank records—but we think we tracked down the daughter.”

“Got a photo?”

“Yes,” Eugenie said. “That wasn’t easy, by the way. No social media presence. Evidently she likes to keep a low profile. A DMV shot was the best we could do.”

“Text it to me.”

“Sending now,” Eugenie said.

A silver-gray car with heavily tinted windows turned into the drive. Roxy chortled, enthused about the prospect of a ride.

“Hang on, my car just arrived,” Leona said. She hurried down the steps.

“Where are you?” Charlotte asked.

“At the Antiquarian Society mansion. Meet the new consultant on the block. I just concluded a job for the Hollister team. And get this, Matt Fullerton is in charge of the project. Having to call me in on an emergency project was very hard for him.”

“Revenge is sweet,” Eugenie said.

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